


Heart-shaped Box

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drunk Sex, Extremely Dubious Consent, Impotence, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:54:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29377395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: Hey, wait- I got a new complaint.
Relationships: Francis Crozier/Edward Little, Francis Crozier/Harry D. S. Goodsir, Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames, Francis Crozier/Thomas Jopson, Thomas Jopson/Edward Little
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. Aqua Vitae

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place round about "Punished As A Boy", and "First Shot A Winner, Lads"; I have done my best to fit it in amongst the events of these episodes, but if it's an inexact fit, well, la-di-da.  
> The title of this story, and the quote in the summary come from Heart-shaped Box, by Nirvana. The chapter headings use, respectively, an unflattering nickname that Kurt Cobain supposedly had for Billy Corgan, and a passage from the writing of Courtney Love.  
> I am not involved in the production of The Terror. No one pays me to do this. This is story and the work it's based on are fiction. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

I.

Gratitude doesn’t sit well with him, perhaps because he never feels that it sits with him at all, but on him. Gratitude for Francis is a weight, not an anchor, not necessary mooring stability, but like unto a wet wool coat. It’s close and oppressive even as it chills you to the bone, clinging to your skin, a drag on your movements; an imposition you yearn to shake off, an invasion, almost human in its sodden, prickly bulk. It’s a debt, and the only thing to do with debts is to discharge them.  
“Sir,” Edward begins, fretful, a reedy, whining sound, his eyes widening and rolling like those of a frightened horse.  
“I’m not going to hurt you, for Christ’s sake,” Francis spits. Then, breathing, sighing, getting a hold on himself, more politely, “Just be still, and enjoy it. It’s the least I can do.”  
“Sir,” he says again, softly, insistent, whispered, his gaze still darting around the room, like he’s expecting an intruder.  
“No one comes unless I permit him,” Francis says, both as reassurance and rebuke. He carefully doesn’t think of unexpectedly finding Mr. Hickey kneeling on his floor, holding what he was holding, the sight such an immediate shock to Francis that he’d felt himself back away, as much from the interloper as from the filth in his hand. “No one would dare.”  
“Sir, please,” Edward says, his hand shoving Francis’ back, but it’s a gentle shove, like a lady would give; just enough so you didn’t assume things about her, like that she’d done this before, done it enough to know how she liked to have it done to her.  
“Say that again,” Francis says, suddenly feeling soft and warm inside, thinking of Sophia’s hand, how it felt to hold it; so clean and honest because he’d never given her cause to push him away, and she’d never given him cause to assume anything; so hot with secrecy because he could put away the feel of the grasp of her fingers for himself, for another time.  
“Say what?” Edward says. As he momentarily stops resisting, Francis slips his hand into Edward’s trousers.  
“Call me ‘sir’, and beg me.”  
“Oh,” Edward says, his hand on Francis’ arm, his wrist, clumsily grasping as he tries to pull away. “Sir, please-”  
“I have a better idea, anyway.” What an awful sound his knees make as he kneels. The proper thing to do would be to crouch, for the sake of his trousers, but he doesn’t trust himself to stay upright. He breathes in deeply, a slow, sleepy breath that steadies him, makes him feel suddenly content with the way things have worked out. Edward’s a good man, with a gentle way about him; he works hard, follows orders, even those he plainly finds unpleasant. It’s easy to like him, to feel affection for him, to want to dispossess him of that look of persecution he seems to constantly wear. Francis caresses his hip through his clothes, undoes the buttons of his drawers, takes out his cock. It’s harder than Francis thought it would be, after such a brief fumble, without so much as a kiss. You can’t always do all of that with men, though, especially young men you don’t know well. You never know if they’ll take offense, think you’re treating them like your sweetheart. It’s a shame. When he’s not looking miserable, Edward has a pleasing countenance. You’d like to do all the things you might to make it nicer for him.  
He moans softly, Francis sucking him slowly, drawing it out for his own sake as much as Edward’s. He feels good in Francis’ mouth, is a good fit, thick enough to make Francis work, but doesn’t try to impress or to direct as a lot of young men do, so pleased with themselves just for getting it up or so anxious and greedy with the impatience of youth that they hurt you, just takes what’s given to him, no more commentary than what he fails to suppress, his sounds like those of a fitful sleep; no more than the slightest thrust of his hips, and that only comes toward the end, when Francis is ready for it, too, his left leg dead, and his right about to join it.  
“Oh,” Edward says, with a kind of mournful surprise, like he’s had bad news. His hand comes down on the top of Francis’ head. “Sir,” he says, like a protestation. Though, what can there be to protest, Edward spilling into Francis’ mouth, forgetting himself, pushing hard between Francis’ lips, now slick, wringing himself dry with a bruising thrust that knocks the breath out of Francis. Slowly, his hand still on Francis’ face, Edward withdraws from Francis’ mouth, then he’s stepping back gingerly as though avoiding something foul on the floor, his cock held in his other hand, like something fragile that’s been loaned to him, turning around to cover himself. Edward’s back turned, Francis swallows, wipes his mouth on his hand, then on his sleeve, then finally, on a handkerchief he’d forgotten he had on him.  
Francis closes his eyes, rubs his fingers into them, the sockets, his temples. His mouth is dry, the brackish taste lingering there drying him all the more, making him feel parched, arid. As though watching its approach from a distance, he feels a headache coming on. “Help me up, will you?” he grumbles.  
Rubbing at an imaginary stain on his trousers, Edward looks up startled, but recovers and takes his hand. Then comes the prolonged and noisy work of Edward attempting to haul him up onto his senseless legs, Edward huffing and Francis grunting, until Francis is standing again, but leaning on Edward, breathing heavily as he shakes feeling back into his lower body, his arms around Edward’s shoulders, and his head falling there, as well.  
“I’m done for,” Francis sighs.  
“Shall I call for Jopson?”  
“God, no,” Francis chuckles. “What do you think he’d make of this? Just help me to bed.”  
“Sir-”  
“I’m too tired to have my way with you, if that’s what you’re afraid of. Anyway, you’ve had your reward. My generosity only extends so far for rum.”  
He feels heavy, like a burden to himself, so he leans on Edward, step by ponderous step to his bed. There, he falls back, feels Edward take off his boots, then maneuver his body into the appropriate position.  
“Will you be all right, sir?” Edward asks.  
Francis covers his head with the pillow, speaks into the mattress: “Go away.”  
The light is extinguished.  
And darkness.  
Gratitude is not the only weight. There is also the weight of sleep, coming down like a storm at sea, water on water, drowning the world.  
Good riddance.

II.

Just as he stumbles out of the captain’s cabin, he finds himself nearly walking into Jopson. Reflexively, his arms come up around his middle, to shield himself from the collision, and to allay the horrible impression that he remains, to spite his meticulous review of the state of his clothing, uncovered. He begins to apologize to Jopson, to compose a polite account of the captain’s state and how he entered into it, but holds his tongue to allow Jopson to speak first.  
“You were very good about it,” Jopson says, with such sincerity of gratitude that at first Edward has no idea what he could be referring to.  
Then realization dawns, like a sickly and unnatural sun, and Edward clears his throat for longer than is necessary, before answering gruffly, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
Jopson regards him with ill-concealed pity. “I know everything that happens in the captain’s rooms.”  
The blood simultaneously rushes to Edward’s face and away from his head, leaving him feeling both insubstantial and blazing hot, like a burst of air from a furnace.  
“You mustn’t think badly of him,” Jopson continues. “He just forgets himself at times, or doesn’t know how to behave. It’s not even him, really,” Jopson adds with an apologetic smile. “He wasn’t always like this,” this said with a troubled, far-off look that makes any lingering dis-ease melt from Edward, the better to allow him to take away Jopson’s.  
It’s with a real feeling of benevolence, spreading new and painful in his chest, that Edward says, “Please, say no more. I understand completely, and all is forgotten.”  
From beneath the shade of his eyelashes, Jopson regards him, softly, Edward thinks. “Then, I must thank you twice for your kindness; for the captain, and for myself.”  
“You need do no such thing,” Edward says, suddenly feeling much older than Jopson, though they must be the same age, and liberal in the way that one feels with someone at such a disadvantage; cheered, oneself by one’s good will toward another. He follows this current of feeling, as for a younger brother, and ventures a hand on Jopson’s shoulder.  
Considering the earlier occurrences of the evening, he should have known it was going too far.  
“What are you-” he gets out, before he’s shoved into the pantry, Jopson’s hands in his clothes as though trying to forcibly rob him.  
“I know you didn’t care for it,” Jopson whispers, and stupidly, it takes Edward a moment to think what he could be referring to, though the shame of it is still stamped on his skin like a physical imprint; a stain, flat and sticky, that may wash away, but will always linger in another sense. “He has a way of doing things that doesn’t suit everyone. I don’t find it objectionable in the least, but others don’t share my opinion,” Jopson says conversationally, only his voice, low and rough, and his hands picking at Edward’s clothing, giving any indication of what’s happening.  
“I don’t understand-” Edward says helplessly, though he understands perfectly well.  
“He can be brusque,” Jopson says, his fingers now at the buttons of Edward’s trousers, “which if you didn’t know him, you’d take for cruelty, but, you see,” Jopson looks into Edward’s eyes, his gaze heartbreakingly clear and open, “it’s just that he never had the time to learn.”  
“To learn what?” Edward asks, feeling mesmerized, looking from Jopson’s eyes, to his mouth, to his hands.  
“How to be kind.”  
With that, Jopson kisses him.  
Before he can stop himself, he finds himself returning Jopson’s enthusiasm, wakened with that kiss to all the hunger he didn’t feel earlier, even as his body was provoked to release. Now, his hands are at the front of Jopson’s trousers, then inside, in his drawers, touching Jopson like he didn’t know he knew how to. He feels Jopson stiffen in his hand, hears the sounds Jopson makes, sending the blood again rising to Edward’s skin, the flush that he knows must cover him, his face and throat blazing, as the first twinge deep down in him drives him forward, jealously seeking its own reward. There are kisses, many more, he doesn’t want to stop kissing Jopson, fighting, he realizes, to drive out what the captain made him feel and replace what the captain took from him.  
“He is unkind,” Edward says, his mouth on Jopson’s throat, far more bitterly than he means to. He kisses Jopson’s mouth again. “So unkind,” he laments to Jopson’s lips.  
“Please try not to say things like that,” Jopson says, and the hypocrisy of it should irritate, but it only makes Edward feel, all at once, as though he knows everything about Jopson, and is sorry for what he’s learned.  
“You love him.” As he says it, he touches Jopson’s cheek in consolation. The consolation is for the both of them.  
“Of course I do.”  
It should make Edward angry, at least at being used, bought and sold so cheaply, twice in one night, but it only makes him feel strangely generous toward Jopson, desire checked by this new understanding and the kindness it engenders. He kisses Jopson again, softly. The last one. “Then you should return to him,” he says, again assuming the fraternal manner, straightening Jopson’s clothes.  
“So, you took no offense?”  
“I did, but that’s settled. As I said, it’s forgotten. Look after him,” he adds, because, spiteful though it is, it pleases him to imagine telling Jopson his duty. Perhaps it pleases him because it is spiteful. He touches Jopson’s face again, watches Jopson’s expression soften into weariness and relief. No, no. No spite. No, none of that.

III.

“Who is that?” he calls, as though out on the ice, struggling to be heard over the wind, and not in his own cabin, his own bed.  
“It’s only me, sir,” Thomas says, all the more softly, to balance the captain’s exclamation, to restore the peace.  
“Oh. Jopson, can you bring me-”  
“I have it, sir. Shall I light a candle, or can you feel for it in the dark?”  
“Just give it here,” the captain rumbles, and Thomas approaches slowly, keeps a hold on the glass even as he feels the captain take it, his other hand on the captain’s back, supporting him as he sits up, gently tilting the glass toward the captain when he feels the captain’s lips touch it. Thomas listens to him drink, his breathing labored, the occasional hiss against the ardent quality of the glass’ contents. When the glass is empty, Thomas takes it away, sets it carefully on the table, makes sure that it softly sounds against the decanter, to assure himself of the glass’ safe position and the captain of the decanter’s presence.  
“Little put me to bed fully dressed,” the captain mutters. “I’m lucky I wasn’t roused from sleep by the call of nature, or I’d have pissed myself in the time it took me to unbutton my trousers.”  
Thomas lets himself scold the captain a little: “He was only trying to be respectful, sir.”  
“I suppose he was,” the captain concedes.  
“Shall I help you to undress?”  
“Yes, Jopson. I would like that.”  
In the dark, he helps the captain sit up, then stand, supporting and guiding, the captain’s solidity and weight guiding him.  
“I don’t know how you can manage it in the dark,” the captain says.  
“It’s not so difficult, sir.”  
“Practice makes perfect.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
The garments are soaked through with perspiration in places. Against his will, Thomas finds himself now silently scolding Lieutenant Little. It’s not good to let someone lie like that, exposed to moisture, especially in the cold. Though the captain doesn’t seem to be chilled, Thomas rubs the captain’s hands and shoulders. “Are you comfortable like this?” he asks when he has the captain down to his shirt and drawers.  
“Much better,” the captain says, his voice lower, more even, that soft, rich tone that always puts Thomas at ease.  
He helps the captain back into bed. The captain’s hand comes up, halts his as he pulls the sheets up over the captain.  
“And what are you going to do with me, now, Thomas?”  
“Whatever you desire, sir.”  
“Take off your clothes, and come to bed.”  
He takes the risk of removing his underthings, knowing that the cold of the room will soon be chased away. No sooner is he settled against the captain, in fact, the captain’s hands climbing his back, then descending again to his hips, that the cold is forgotten. He kisses the captain, sure that he betrays himself with his thoroughness, what he knows about where the captain’s mouth has been, but not caring, not caring if the captain knows that he knows. Welcoming it, now, full revelation, he kisses him harder, deeper, hears the stifled gasp, the suggestion of discomfort, feels the captain push it down, meet Jopson’s ardor, his fingernails pressing into Jopson’s back.  
But there is no trace of Edward; only the whiskey that Thomas brought the captain. No suggestion that there could be anything that the captain wanted or needed that Thomas couldn’t give him. He relaxes, kisses slowly, now, gently, caressing the captain’s cheek, his throat, rubbing his breast through his shirt, the captain’s mouth falling open against his.  
“Take this off,” the captain says, plucking at his shirt irritably.  
“With pleasure, sir.”  
“And the drawers,” the captain says unnecessarily.  
“With greater pleasure, still.”  
“Light the lamp, if you would,” the captain says, now, softly.  
“The light will hurt your eyes.”  
“I don’t care. I want to see you, and I want you to see me.”  
“Do you like what you see?” Thomas asks, standing somewhat apart so that he can be beheld, appreciated, all that he is and that the captain is not, but can possess, but only if Thomas allows him. Feeling as though he’s divined something, something he didn’t know before about the captain, he lets it make him bold, entitled to taking liberties, entitled to whatever he wishes. If he wishes, he may even be cruel; he may punish, deny, berate.  
Yet, for being so thrilling, it’s an ill fit, and as soon as he sees the look of surprise and unsteadiness on the captain’s face, his boldness goes, and then he’s moving closer to stand within in his reach, then into the captain’s arms, embraced around his middle, his hands in the captain’s hair, Thomas painfully touched by its sparseness and softness, one thing less to protect the captain, laying his hand gently over the place where the scalp has come through. He feels the captain’s lips on his belly, then, wordlessly shifting them both, the captain brings his mouth lower, taking Thomas in slowly, not all at once, as though unready or uncertain. Then, his entire length is in the captain’s mouth, then almost completely out again, then slowly in, then slowly out. He sighs, his hands on the captain’s face, feeling his cheeks hollow as he draws his head back; the captain’s hands on Thomas’ hips, pulling him in; Thomas’ hands resting atop the captain’s, thumb gently passing over the veins that stand out, like embroidery on a coat.  
As good as it is, it’s not what Thomas wants, and after a moment more, he stops the captain, lies back down atop him, kisses his mouth, soft and wet and tender, touches him all over, kisses his throat, his breast, the soft expanses of his bare skin, pink and white and freckled; touches and kisses him between his legs.  
“That’s pointless,” the captain says.  
“Not if I enjoy doing it, it’s not, sir.” His hand resting there, protective, proprietary. Sometimes, he allows himself to believe that the captain belongs to him, and it strikes him, hot and galvanic, deep inside. Like now. He presses his lips to the curve of the captain’s thigh.  
But the captain only laughs a little. “I don’t know how you can.”  
“You don’t see yourself the way I see you,” he says softly, takes the captain’s prick in his mouth. And in truth, it is an exercise in futility, but for the pleasure it gives Thomas, this closeness, its object a foregone conclusion, stripped down to bare sensation; the taste and scent of the captain, the way he feels, his hand stroking through Thomas’ hair, all that this, all that he means to Thomas. Thomas raises his hips, takes his own prick in his hand, hears himself hum contentedly.  
“Leave off there,” the captain says, and Thomas comes back up to him, kisses his mouth. “Fuck me,” the captain says.  
“It’ll be quick.”  
“Good.”  
“From the front, or from behind?”  
“The front.”  
He arranges them, the captain pliant in his arms, allowing his legs to be drawn up, his most private parts exposed. As gently as he can, for both their sake, Thomas enters, but it’s still too much of a shock to his overwrought nerves, and he breeches the captain’s body but an inch before he loses himself. All he can do after that is tremble in the captain’s arms, pleasure raking him like a bed of fallen leaves, his hips moving mechanically, as of their own accord as he spills, half in and half out. He sighs against the captain’s bare shoulder, kisses it in apology.  
“I’m sorry, sir,” he says finally.  
His hand comes up to rest on the back of Thomas’ head. “You enjoyed yourself, did you not?”  
“Very much, sir.”  
“Then there’s nothing to apologize for. Just stay like this for a while, let me hold you.”  
“The sheets, sir.”  
“Damn the sheets. I’ve lain in worse.”  
Sometime later, Thomas hears himself murmur, “I’m falling asleep.”  
Far-off, as though across the sea, the ice, the captain: “Then you’re precisely where you should be.”


	2. Littoral

“… Of course, I should one day like to go myself, my duties permitting… Though, I have heard that it’s thought, lamentably, that most of the important discoveries have been made… Publish… the preserved remains of...  
\- but Hooker’s work suggests a sub-species-”  
A shallow sound, like cloth being rent. Harry looks up, having been gazing down at his hands, as he finds he often does when speaking at great length. The captain is half turned in on himself, hand buried in the constricted red labyrinth of his features. The captain is weeping.  
Was it something Harry said?  
Only, he’s not even sure the captain was listening to him, looking increasingly far away, only taking long, slow sips from his cup, nodding every once in a while, until something seemed to unsettle him. There must have first been a trickle; now, Harry find himself in a deluge.  
Harry stands, approaches slowly. “Sir, are you-” Harry frowns. “Are you in pain?”  
Another pitiful expulsion of air, the captain waving him away with a jerky motion.  
If Harry didn’t know better, he’d question the contents of the cup.  
Yet, Harry comes closer, still. “Sir,” he begins again, speaking slowly and clearly, “are you all right?”  
What he gets in lieu of an answer is an armload of sobbing, shaking man, the captain almost bowling him over, as he struggles to support the captain’s weight. Uncertainly, he pats the captain’s back, and when this seems not to work, rubs in slow ellipses, willing the captain’s breathing to slow, the flood to be dammed up. Time stands still. How long he does this, Harry doesn’t know, only that he feels like he has always been, the captain a comfortable burden, awkward and bewildering, but so solid and warm in Harry’s arms.  
“I’ll call for Mr. Jopson-” he says finally, for they can’t continue this way, but he calls for nothing, because the captain’s mouth meets his.  
“Sir, what-” he gets out, before the captain pulls him in again, like a swimmer taking a breath of air before diving anew. It’s very much like swimming, Harry thinks helplessly, the salt of the captain’s tears staining his lips; very much like wading too deep close to the shore, where the water was thought to be shallow, and finding that the ground has fallen away.  
There can now no longer be, Harry notes with strange detachment, any question as to what was in the captain’s cup.  
Now, he tries for sternness: “Sir, you’re not yourself-”  
To no avail.  
“Try to calm yourself,” he says gently, for which he’s pulled under again, into the captain’s embrace, a long, slow kiss, the captain’s strong arms clinging to him, soft hands in his hair.  
He has heard that of the ways in which a man may die, drowning is among the least objectionable. Perhaps it is as like to this as swimming. For, as soon as Harry gives over to his own lack of recourse, it is, he finds, as effortlessly pleasant as holding the captain was. The captain is insistent, but not oppressive; in whatever corner of his mind he currently resides, having apparently taken leave of his natural senses and dignity, he seems to possess some concern for Harry. Concern, or even consideration, it must be, for though he continues to press Harry, to disarray him, now with the new aim of exposing him, it seems to be toward the purpose of Harry’s satisfaction, the captain making no demands on Harry, no attempt to direct Harry’s hands, or worse, to make him kneel or to bend him over. The captain steers him toward the benches at the far side of the cabin, but that’s not a bad place to go, the captain’s weight beginning to be too much for him.  
“Steady,” he murmurs, righting the captain when the captain stumbles. It’s easy to feel concern for him, Harry reflects, surprised at this conclusion, for though he has every semblance of earthly power, the captain seems to possess so little power over himself. His tears continue to flow, as though less a show of emotion than of the elements: the sky doesn’t have to grieve for the rain to fall, and the clouds unburden themselves until they’re empty. Harry wipes away the tears, his hand on the captain’s cheek, looking at him, now, properly, for the first time, it seems. The captain’s face, normally ruddy, is scarlet from emotion and exertion, the pitted surface of his skin irritated to puffiness, taking on the appearance of lemon rind. His small eyes are swollen, wet, the lashes sticking together, unfocused like a fish’s eyes. He is, Harry thinks fretfully, guiltily, quite an unfortunate man.  
Pity, for this strange, ill-favored creature, turns to melting tenderness, and Harry kisses him, finding it easier with this new understanding, gently, letting himself be eased back. Having come out the other side into peaceful indifference as to his state, he lets himself simply feel it, the captain’s mouth against his, the captain’s hands over his clothes, then inside, the captain’s body rubbing against his. How long it had been since anyone touched him like this; or at all. Both the need for completion and that for affection equally strong, he finds himself returning to his original purpose, comforting the captain, kissing him softly, almost chastely, even as the captain insinuates his hand between Harry’s legs, and Harry pushes into it, enjoying the tightness of the captain’s grasp, his hand truly and surprisingly soft, but for a rough patch on the thumb that manages to catch Harry on each stroke in the place where he’s most sensitive, making him gasp, twist his body into it. Still, the tears don’t stop, even when the captain presses down on him, half on, half off, kissing his mouth as though drinking from it, then descending his body, settling between Harry’s legs, now using his mouth.  
“Sir,” he exhales, reaching down to take the captain’s head in his hands. His hands come away wet. He closes his eyes, imagining the tears falling down onto him, mixing with the captain’s spittle, with his own fluids. There’s little to find in the scene that is picturesque, so he lets pure, dumb, crude bodily lust take him away, and he comes in the captain’s mouth, his back arching off of the bench, his hips pushing up; like a wave, like waves.  
When the captain’s mouth meets his again, it’s wet. Though not with tears. His hand on the back of the captain’s neck, he pulls the captain down, opens his mouth, tastes his own semen as it floods into his mouth, viscous, bitter seafoam.  
How strange life is, Harry thinks absently, his hand on the captain’s brow, pushing back his hair, now damp with sweat; how like the ocean, with its mysteries. The captain’s body trembles against his, but less, Harry smoothing his hand over the captain’s back, the motion of the sea caressing the shore.  
How full of variety.  
How pleasing, and how wonderful.  
How wet.


	3. Hippocampus

Francis wakes with a start and immediately goes red all over.  
“Thomas,” he begins, trying to sit up. “What-”  
He takes hold of Francis, supports him. “You’re lucky I ran into Mr. Goodsir first. He was on his way to find Dr. MacDonald. I told Jopson to get some rest for the time being, that I’d look after you.”  
“What...” he says again, wearily.  
Thomas looks at the ceiling. “Though he was a bit vague about it, according to Goodsir, you’d had a funny turn; he said you and he were just sitting, talking, when you became insensible and couldn’t be roused.”  
“That’s about right,” Francis says sheepishly, his expression as good as confirmation, so Thomas determines that it’s unnecessary to mention that Goodsir had jumped a button on his waistcoat and that his braces were unbuttoned on one side in the front.  
He sighs, straightens Francis’ clothes as much as he can with his arm around him. “And how are you now?”  
“Tired,” Francis sighs.  
“We’re all tired, Francis. How are you, really?”  
“Destroyed.”  
“Is that why you nodded off?” he asks carefully.  
“No. You know it isn’t why. And it was only for a minute. Mr. Goodsir is prone to exaggeration, and loses his nerve too easily for a medical man.”  
“All the same, you must have given him quite a scare.”  
“I didn’t mean to.”  
“No, I know you didn’t.”  
“I miss him,” Francis says suddenly, not referring to Mr. Goodsir. “I can tell you that much, can’t I?”  
“I guessed that on my own,” he says gently.  
“But it was impossible, so there was no reason not to leave, to go here, or there, or anywhere, but to move, try to move away from him. It was impossible,” he repeats softly.  
“You did what you had to do; thinking, I believe, more about his happiness than your own.”  
“Like the saint I am,” Francis mutters.  
“No, it’s only human to care for somebody, and to suffer with it when that person doesn’t seem to care as much, or in the same way.”  
“I keep making the same mistake.”  
He helps Francis stand. “I think it’s time you went to bed.”  
“Will you stay with me?”  
“I will, until Jopson returns.”  
“What state was he in that you sent him to bed?”  
“Never you mind about Jopson,” he says, slowly walking Francis to his bed, “He’s resting peacefully, and he’ll soon come back to you, restored.”  
That seems to be reassurance enough, because Francis is silent as Thomas helps him off with his clothes, and into bed.  
“You might look in on Goodsir later on,” Francis says, “to see that he’s recovered.”  
“I will do that, as well.”  
“And don’t bother Dr. MacDonald. This isn’t serious.”  
“Hush, now, and sleep, Francis.”  
From beneath the bedclothes, Francis’ hand rises, looking smaller and paler than it should. The fingers extend, then curl again inward. A question. An answer. Thomas takes Francis’ hand in his.


	4. The Pear-shaped Box

“I know what you need,” Francis says, and he can’t possibly mean it like that, even looking at James half sharp and half unfocused, mean and stupid, his legs splayed before him, a full glass in his hand. It wouldn’t be the first time James had been spoken to in that way, but the last time was long ago, on the sunny side of twenty, before James had grown to his full height and learned how to both take a punch and lay a man out. All of that time and space and change should stand between James and the memory, sick and bitter, and it does, for a second, when it’s all just in James’ head, before his body remembers, the fear and the shame and the disgust, and he has to stop himself from backing away from Francis.  
“And what’s that?” he asks, in a quiet voice that even surprises him with its steadiness.  
Maybe Francis didn’t mean it like that, after all, or thought better of it, or lost his nerve, because his expression softens into something like surprise. But then: “Something I couldn’t give you, even if I wanted to,” he sniffs, full of contempt, but all, it seems, for himself. “That take the wind out of your sails?” He takes a sip from his glass, hesitantly, as though no longer sure that he likes the taste.  
“I think I should go.”  
“Or you could take your frustrations out on me.”  
“You’re unwell, Francis; you should sleep.”  
He stands, puts down his glass. “Say my name again.”  
“Why?”  
“Because I asked you to.”  
“You didn’t ask; you told me to.”  
“Then, because I told you to.”  
“What is this? What are you doing?” If it’s not a threat, it must be a game, though it doesn’t resemble any game that anyone’s ever tried to play with James before, so dull and so comforting in their regularity. To those, he knows the rules, over time, gaining enough in both knowledge and confidence to be able to play his own hand and win; to be able to admit to himself that, the danger still present but now manageable, he liked playing.  
“Enjoying the privileges of my rank.”  
“I wasn’t aware you considered me to be one of them,” he says coldly.  
Francis gives him a long, appraising look, its menace somewhat diluted by Francis’ head tilting of its own volition slightly to the side. “You know how you look,” he mutters. “False modesty in a man is worse than it is in a woman. You need it from them, to give you something to give them; they can’t have their beauty unless we let them have it. Us, though, what do we need to ask of anyone?”  
James sighs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
“You carry yourself like my father’s mistress,” Francis says, and kisses him.  
“Go to sleep, Francis,” he says softly, but doesn’t stop himself from laying his hand against Francis’ cheek.  
“Take me to bed.”  
“You’re drunk.”  
“If you waited for me to sober up, you’d be waiting a long time.”  
“Perhaps it’s better not to do this at all.”  
Francis fixes him with a look that wants badly to be anger but doesn’t make it past fear. “You’re not too good for me,” he accuses.  
“Maybe I’m not good enough,” he says, realizing too late what he’s done. It’s a jest that doubles back to strike its maker. He looks into Francis’ eyes for any trace of satisfaction, but finds none. Of course he doesn’t. Yet, he feels unsteady, and sets his hands on Francis’ shoulders.  
“You must know by now that very little is beneath me,” Francis says, his voice rubbed rough, and kisses James again.  
He shouldn’t permit this. Francis may be his commanding officer, but it is he, not Francis, who should take charge. He should stop this, pull away, as forcefully as he needs to, march Francis off to bed, leave, and lock the door behind himself. He should call for Jopson, for Lieutenant Little, Dr. MacDonald, Mr. Blanky- Sir John Ross- Sir John Barrow- The Queen- The Archbishop, the Pope, Jesus Christ, and the apostles- God, Himself. If only this will keep James from sucking Francis’ tongue, and holding him close, Francis’ hand now slipping between his legs. It feels good, and it continues to feel good, Francis’ hands on him firm, decided, seeking to please as much as possess. He could have been doing this for years, how well he seems to know James, to know without being told, how James likes to be touched.  
“God,” James sighs.  
The heavens do not part.  
Nor do he and Francis.  
They make their way to the window seat, and before James knows what is happening, Francis is turned away from him, fumbling with his trousers and his braces, swearing and shaking. “Just take them down,” he says finally, thwarted by a button.  
Perhaps this is the sign James was looking for.  
Under James’ hands, though, Francis’ clothes fall away like stage curtains. Lifting Francis’ shirt, he kisses the small of his back, the skin thin and pale. Francis makes a pitiful sound, choked, like a sob or like he might be sick.  
“Are you all right?” James asks, already covering him again, his hands on Francis’ waist, ready to stand him up.  
There’s wetness in his voice. “Do it.”  
“Tell me that you’re all right.”  
“Damn you, Fitzjames.”  
He can go slowly, he tells himself. If he goes slowly, Francis will have every opportunity to tell him to stop. To spite everything, every strange, painful thing that has passed between them, he means Francis no harm. He’s as gentle as he can be, seeing to them both, touching Francis carefully, trying to imagine what he might like, what might make him happy, or as close to happy as Francis might permit himself to be. He kisses Francis’ exposed skin, his back, his hips, his thighs, his own cock in his hand, touching himself, then rubbing himself against Francis in preparation to enter, wetting him, easing his way. He starts to press into Francis, a little at a time, slowly, though it’s agonizing.  
“James,” Francis sighs, unexpectedly touching, so that James stops for a moment, caresses him, gentles him before resuming.  
“Oh, James,” Francis says again. He slips his hand between Francis’ legs, touches him like he likes to be touched, himself. It’s more exciting, now that Francis’ interest is certain, and it feels like something they’re doing together. Inside Francis completely, he finds his rhythm, and the more he fucks Francis, the better it gets, Francis sighing softly as he moves against James, tightening around him.  
“Francis,” he says helplessly, feels Francis tremble beneath him, in his arms. “Francis,” he says again. “Francis.”


	5. Your Mother x Whore

It’s the sound of the bottle that wakes him, the clink of glass against glass.  
“Jopson,” he croaks, the only word that emerges from the mush inside of his skull.  
“I’m here, sir,” Jopson says softly. “How are you?”  
He groans, variously: in gratitude, in relief, in agony, because he can’t think of another sound to make. Finally, he resolves himself sufficiently, as though all of him had been scattered, and he’s had to remake his body and mind from scraps, and speaks. “I feel like I’ve been put through a sieve.”  
“Is it your head, sir?”  
“Yes,” he says, closing his eyes, suddenly shy as he recalls the nature and origin of some of his complaints. Yet, if he doesn’t name them, he will never have relief. “I’ve been fucked.”  
“Sir?”  
“Fitzjames.” He reddens at the unintended slip. “He, er, he doesn’t know his own- anyway,” he tries and fails to turn fully onto his side without causing himself further distress. Huffing out a breath, he continues, “He left in a hurry, and I was in no state to-” he clears his throat, “I shall need-”  
“Shall I fetch a basin, sir?”  
He laughs so he doesn’t cry. “Exactly that.”  
“I’ll have to light the lamp”  
“Do what you have to do.”  
In its way, the light is merciful. His eyes closed against it, Francis doesn’t have to see what Jopson does with him, doesn’t have to look at Jopson’s face, look him in the eye. The whole operation is performed on him while he remains in darkness, Jopson first bringing the glass to his lips so he can drink, then stripping him, washing him, dressing him again in a clean shirt.  
“I’m sorry,” Francis says finally, for he can’t let this go unremarked.  
“No apology is necessary.”  
“It is,” slowly, he opens his eyes, like a newborn animal, “at least for making you scrub me like your invalid granny.”  
Looking away, Jopson smiles. It’s not a happy smile. “If I may say so, sir, I do think you should take better care of yourself.”  
“Why should I, when I have you to do it for me, and with more kindness than I could ever muster for myself?”  
“Please don’t say that, sir.”  
“All right,” he says gently.  
“Will you require anything else?”  
“Your company, if you’re not sick of me.”  
“Never, sir. Let me just see to the basin. I won’t be a moment.”  
It’s a long, cold moment until Jopson reappears.  
“Will you lie down with me?” Francis asks. “I can’t promise much in the way of entertainment, but I could certainly lie still for it.”  
“I’d just like to be close to you.”  
Without meaning to, he laughs. “I apologize for that, as well. A nervous reaction,” he says stiffly.  
“There’s nothing to fear, sir,” Jopson says, touches his cheek.  
In his shirt and drawers, Jopson gets into bed next to him, wraps around him. Gently, he strokes Francis’ hair, his shoulder, his arm, says nothing, asks for nothing, quietly steady, so much so that it makes Francis’ chest ache. He clears his throat, hears the catch in his voice and hates it, says, trying for levity, “Aren’t you at least going to demand to know what he has that you don’t?”  
Softly, against Francis’ ear, Jopson murmurs, “Oh, I have everything I need, sir.”


End file.
